A Mummers' Play by Jo Beverley Page A

the mage knew the difference.
    Rozlinda strained to catch every detail.
    “He’s not from around here. Long pale hair but dark skin. Not like the dark of Cradel. A sort of bronzish gold. His clothes are strange, too. A sleeveless leather jerkin such as a farm worker might wear, but cut tight. And no shirt underneath.”
    Rozlinda had to swallow. That leather was almost like a second skin and left his brown, muscular arms open to her inspection.
    “And?” the mage prompted.
    Rozlinda dragged her eyes away from more manly perfection than she’d seen as an adult. She grew hotter. The jerkin went down to his thighs, but his legs were covered by garments as form-fitting as her own silk stocking.
    “Princess?”
    “Green hose, brown boots.”
    How inadequate. How deceptive. But she felt that if she truly described this man he might be snatched away as a forbidden treat.
    It was as if he were drifting toward her, or she toward him. Details became clearer. His arms weren’t totally bare. “Metal bands around his arms, upper and lower. They look like gold. Can’t be. He’s no prince. You can’t see this, Mistress?”
    “No, it’s your vision. Blond hair, you said?”
    Rozlinda concentrated again. “Not really blond. More white.”
    “Old?”
    “No, not at all. It’s . . . this is a strange word for hair, but it’s bone colored.”
    “I see.”
    “You do?” Rozlinda tried to sit up, but Mistress Arcelsia pushed her down.
    “Tell me more. Tell me everything.”
    Something urgent in the mage’s tone both excited and scared Rozlinda. It had been so long since anything different had happened to her that she didn’t know how to react.
    “Pale hair. Loose down the back but in thin plaits at the front. Glinting, as if woven with shiny wire.”
    “Is he alone?”
    “Yes. No! He just looked to his side and spoke to someone, but I can’t see who. And it would have to be someone in the water. Or in a boat. The water rippled. Perhaps someone’s swimming. He’s picking up a bag and hanging it from his shoulder. A scruffy bag. Definitely not a wealthy man. A thief, do you think? Is this some warning about thievery? He’s walking toward me.”
    Rozlinda tried to shrink back, but the mage’s hand was firm on her neck. This was a vision, she reminded herself. A prognostication or an omen. Important.
    “Is there anything else about him that you haven’t told me, Princess?
    “He walks well.” Rozlinda became lost in the easy grace of that walk. Not a trudge at all, but a smooth swing, as if the whole world was his to walk over and he intended to do it.
    As he drew closer, she noted more about his face. It was as handsome as the rest of him, with a square chin, high cheekbones, and chiseled symmetry, but the set of his mouth was grim and his startling pale amber eyes were cold.
    And looking straight at her.
    “Let me up!”
    Mistress Arcelsia’s hand clamped her down. “More, Princess. Tell me everything!”
    Panting with fright, Rozlinda looked anywhere by at those eyes. “Leather belt. Pouch. Knife. A buckle. It looks to be . . .”
    “Be what?”
    “Set with dragon eye stones. It can’t be. Only princesses of the blood wear dragon eyes!”
    Who was this man? What did this vision mean?
    Deep inside, instinct answered:
Nothing good.

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    THE RAVEN AND THE ROSE
    Available March 2014 from InterMix

 
    England, 1153
    Sister Gledys of Rosewell was sinning again.
    She was dreaming of her knight and knew she should wake herself up, but she didn’t. Alas for her immortal soul, she didn’t want to lose a precious moment of these visions, and her heart already raced with wicked excitement.
    As always, he was fighting, clad in a long chain-mail robe and conical helmet. He wielded a sword and protected himself with a long shield on his left arm. Sometimes she saw him afoot, but he was generally on a great fighting horse in battle or skirmish.
    That didn’t surprise Gledys. Strife,